


Rising Angel

by 00ster



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: help me finish this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00ster/pseuds/00ster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An angel returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising Angel

Rising Angel 

 

She awakens. Gasps in a huge lungfull of cold dusty air and sits up. Spasticly bending from the waist into a semi upright position. There is pain. Excruciating pain from just below her left collarbone.

"Bitch seestra." she mutters under a barely contained exhalation. "Shot me."

Her right hand moves numb fingers to probe the wound. A nine millimeter through and through she thinks slowly. All there is to do is control the bleeding and the shock. She has vast and unfortunate experience in these matters.

"Sestra is not as good a shot as she believes."

With her right hand pressed firmly upon the pain to staunch the flow of blood she rises, stumbly as a newborn foal. Left hand reaching out by reflex to stabilize her balance against the nearby concrete pillar. The movement sends a massive wave of nauseating pain through her entire core. Yet she does not fall. Angels are tougher than this. Eyes narrow into tiny slits. Teeth grind together. She feels within an anger hot enough to melt the sun. A fury so intense that it negates the pain of her wound. Erases the agony of her very existance.

 

Later. Is it hours or is it days? She can't recall. It matters little. The pain has subsided somewhat and this is good but the fury has remained. Intensified into a knife edge of sharpness. She knows she should not let it rule her but now she is beyond caring. There will be a blood price. It will be paid. Scripture has told her so and she has dreamed it. She has seen it.

 

She drives the white van slowly and methodically through busy morning streets. Carefully signalling each turn. Obeying every traffic light and sign. No rolling stops. It would not do to be pulled over and questioned by police. They would ask for things like drivers licences and insurance papers that she does not possess. They must not be allowed to search the vehicle. There would be even more questions about the modified .223 Ranch rifle, the knives, pistols and ammunition wrapped snugly in moving blankets in the back. Questions she can only answer with violence. She grabs another donut from the box on the passenger seat and munches with a will enjoying the sugary sweetness. Checks herself in the rearview mirror, tucks a long lock of curly blonde hair back under the grey woolen toque from where it has strayed. Licking her fingers while she waits for a light to change.

The traffic has abated as she nears her destination. The passenger cars giving way to large trucks and vans as the scenery changes from busy downtown to outskirts industrial. Then she is alone on the road under a dull grey sky. Finally she reaches a section of semi abandoned city docks. Ships moored here will likely never sail again; home to the impounded, the bankrupted and the obsolete simply left to rust. Security here is a rusting barb wire topped fence half grown in with goldenrod. There is a padlocked sliding gate by the now boarded up guard booth. She takes the keys hanging from a lanyard on the vans mirror. She notices something else hanging with them, a golden crucifix on a fine chain. She puts this around her neck tucking the cross under her (sisters) dirty, blood caked shirt.


End file.
